Failures
by hell-whim
Summary: Zuko falls apart. (Maiko, Kataang) Warning: non-graphic infant death


**Title:** Failures

**Pairings:** Zuko/Mai, Katara/Aang, Sokka/Suki

**Warnings:** Non-graphic infant death

**Summary:** Zuko falls apart.

**Failures**

Their first daughter is born on the fifth anniversary of the end of the war, two months earlier than expected, and dies three days later, in his arms, as he quietly sings her to sleep.

Mai spends barely a week recovering and then simply carries on as though nothing has happened. She resumes fully all duties of the Fire Lady, an attentive statue, always a respectful step behind, hands folded together beneath her sleeves. Their daughter is buried in the mausoleum which holds only an empty casket marked with his mother's name.

At the end of the national week of mourning, Aang arrives, parting the fallen cherry blossoms with a gentle breeze. Katara follows, naturally.

"Zuko, I," she says, reaching between the teacups to touch his closed hand, "I am _so_ sorry."

"There will be other children," he hears himself say, in his father's distant voice. "We are still young."

Mai does not look up from her fingers twined atop her bent knees, spine perfectly straight but for the gentle curve of her neck.

"Other children," she agrees softly. A servant enters the room and slides the doors closed against the rising wind.

Zuko shows Katara and Aang to private apartments on the far side of the palace and then returns to his own empty chambers and empty wife. She will not share his bed, arranging herself flat on a divan near the window.

"I wish to go see Azula," she says, eyes on the ceiling.

"Yes," he says, and, "of course. Whatever you would like."

She leaves the next evening, and when he kisses her good-bye, his lips meet only air.

Katara and Aang follow him quietly from the palace to the docks and back again. Their own trip will not begin for a few days, and they are clueless to his focus—Katara especially, favoring quiet looks of pity and the occasional gentle touch to his shoulder or the back of his hand. Aang provides only companionable silence through morning tea and afternoon briefing and evening meditation.

They set off for the south on one of his few remaining battleships, its sharp points smoothed down by time and dedicated effort. Zuko has assured, in carriage, in attitude, in reflection, that the Fire Nation will never again be a force of violence and domination. Aang walks at his side, an equal, as the gangplank is lowered.

Zuko enters the village limits for the first time in six years and is nearly crushed in Sokka's embrace.

"Great to see you, buddy!" he says, laughing. Tribal governorship has filled out his angles, morphing his wiry frame to a softened bulk. "And you left the wall intact this time! That's progress."

He leads them in a motley procession through the small but delighted crowd. Their numbers have swelled to nearly a hundred and fifty.

"And more every day," Sokka says with pride. "Some of our warriors _really_ missed their wives."

They are ushered into a large, central dome. The only person Zuko recognizes is Suki, but Katara and Aang make a circuit of the room, bowing and laughing and kissing each person in turn. Katara tells Sokka of his insensitivity at some point during the welcome, as he suddenly and quickly shuffles his clan into the next room, embarrassed perhaps by the largesse of twins.

"To business?" Aang suggests delicately.

The work is familiar and easy for Zuko to lose himself in. His purpose is clear: draft a treaty of alliance between the Fire Nation and the Southern Water Tribe, an exchange of protection for favorable trading rights. It's all part of the larger goal of rebuilding and ensuring peace, of forging from past mistakes a strong new bond. He has made similar but fruitless attempts with the Northern Tribe.

Six days pass, and Mai sends a messenger hawk. She has left Azula and heads now to Kyoshi, to see Ty Lee. Zuko turns the parchment over, uncertain what he's expecting, but there is nothing else.

That night, everyone gathers together as usual to eat and talk, and Aang entertains the children with wisps of colored flame. When Sokka joins, they make a game of it, telling half-true stories of their old adventures, Aang creating characters and settings from fire. Katara and Suki hold the twins and watch, enraptured. The padding and furs make them seem bigger than they are—little faces red and pinched with mindless smiles. The one in Katara's lap leans in, stretching for the flame, but Katara pulls him back with a gentle admonishment. At the end of the next story, Zuko stands and excuses himself from the gathering.

The cold doesn't bother him the way it used to. He steps into the night and breathes. Sokka follows and stands at a respectful distance, no doubt pushed to reach out.

"So, um, Zuko—"

"Katara doesn't always know what she's talking about. I'm alright."

"I can't imagine what you're going through," Sokka says. "But you don't have to go through it alone, you know?"

He can't waterbend, of course, but makes a brief attempt, twisting his fingers through the visible fog of his breath.

"Your family is...nice."

"Yeah, I've got all the luck in the world," Sokka says, and then winces.

Zuko leaves at the end of the week, too early in the morning for a grand procession. Aang, Katara, Sokka, and Suki see him off with affection and concern. He makes vague promises about communication and half-means them, but the treaty is already signed and he's more than ready to be off to the Earth Kingdom, to put down rebellion in the colonies.

He doesn't really begin to feel alone until he sees Toph. A girl of seventeen now, she has grown up but not out.

"I still barely reach your shoulders," she protests, yanking him into a hug, powerful little hands clamping down on his sides. He pulls away first, and she steps back, frowning. "You're sad. Your footsteps are heavier."

"Maybe it's the robe," Zuko replies, forcing jocularity into his tone. "They've added a lot more decoration."

"No," Toph says quietly, certainly. "It's in your arms, too."

He has no answer to that, so she leads him by the hand to a conquered villa, currently serving as barracks for a patchwork regiment of earthbenders. They have been cut off for weeks, she explains, fighting a cruel and clever band of firebending rebels. Little food, and no news.

"They reject my right to rule as Fire Lord," Zuko says. "Many of the colony leaders were diehard loyalists to my father. I guess it's difficult for some to let go of the old attitudes."

"Not everyone wants peace," Toph agrees, lounging against a broken but still ornate tea-table. "Especially when fighting's all they've known."

Zuko looks through the open terrace door, into a garden of trampled flowers and hollowed rocks. There is a decent mix in Toph's forces, men and women, young and old, but worn in similar ways. None of them meet his eyes, but he can tell when they've noticed him—hands tighten on straps and around swords, jaws clench, feet still and arms cross over barreled chests.

He has worked hard to improve relations with the Earth Kingdom, but it's been difficult: Bumi is a good fighter but lacks an heir and is, frankly, _insane_, and Ba Sing Se remains in turmoil, governments rising and falling every few weeks. The useless Earth King still hasn't been found—not that anyone is really looking. And the various Fire Nation governors and warlords and police forces are by no means unified, under Zuko's rule or under the rebels.

The war is almost worth missing. The inaction of diplomacy eats at him, lights an itch through his fingers he cannot suppress. He misses the dedication of it—he forgets, in the bottleneck of years, the pain and humiliation and fear, thinking only of the certainty, the sense of control.

His life now—Zuko frowns—his life _now_, as Fire Lord, is a series of frustrating dances where he knows only half the steps. His people have been less than willing to surrender to an enemy they had so nearly destroyed, and rooting out his father's old guard had taken much longer than Zuko hoped. This absence is a test of his power: he is reasonably confident in his ministers' loyalty, but the lingering fear of a coup makes him almost glad Mai is gone and their daughter dead.

"You're somewhere far away," Toph says softly.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be. Just...caught in my own thoughts."

"It's okay. Wanna tell me where you went?"

"No," he says. "Not really."

It's nice, in a way, that Toph doesn't know. She can read his mood but doesn't push, providing targets and tactics, gleeful to have even a third of the old gang together again. She welcomes him into their forces, provides a uniform and a team of warriors to command, in that kindly threatening way she has.

But he works to prove himself, rejecting the charity of Toph's forced approval. He sleeps among the soldiers, eats with them, studies their bending technique to improve his own. Soon enough their acceptance is genuine, but it has not filled him in the way he hoped, and he withdraws from their company before friendship can be considered.

It is slow, ugly, steady work to cleanse the hills of rebel forces. Defiance is their obsession, and there's never enough left to surrender. After two months, Zuko and Toph have whittled the resistance down to its leader: an impressively tough firebender who spent decades in service to Ozai. Cornered within his own compound, he demands that Zuko face him in an Agni Kai.

"We have fought to the last man. This is about _honor_."

"No, it's not," Zuko says and kills him. The earthbenders are shocked, and Zuko turns to Toph. "I'm not the Avatar."

But Toph approves, nodding.

"Hey, neither am I."

It's an almost providential declaration, as they return to the coast to find that Aang has arrived, commandeering their villa. He has heard of their exploits, and he doesn't approve.

"You didn't have to do that," he says, as Zuko dodges him, sliding the sword sheath from his back. "You could have demanded surrender."

Toph doesn't bother to defend anything or get in the way, as Zuko moves deeper into the room. The sun has set, and moonlight paints his path to a bowl of clear, cold water where he kneels and scrubs the dirt from his face.

"I did what was necessary. I don't need you to understand."

"Zuko, you're not yourself."

"Then who am I?"

He declines Aang's offer to go along to Ba Sing Se. What trees that have survived the assault are devoid of leaves and life. Mai knows his mind—her second hawk arrives the day before his departure.

"Has she returned home?" Aang asks. "It would probably do you good to see her."

"No," Zuko says evenly, rolling up the parchment. "She's traveling to the north. To see her parents."

Zuko doesn't leave fast enough—Aang tells Toph, and she joins him that night in the destroyed garden.

"I'm meditating," he warns.

"I'm sorry about your daughter, Zuko."

"Sorry? Why? Was it your fault?"

He keeps perfectly still, breathing calm and centered.

"That's not what that means. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I'm _fine_. I don't need you all fawning over me."

"Of course not," Toph says. "You never need anything. Or anyone."

It's cruel, but she never liked being kept in the dark. Only Aang walks him back to the ship in the morning.

"Come with me," he implores once more, uselessly. "We'll stop in Omashu, and then go on to Ba Sing Se and visit Iroh. Katara will be along in a few weeks."

But Zuko climbs back aboard his ship with a quiet good-bye and directs the crew to take them home. He retires to his cabin, intending to sleep, but can't. The roll of the waves is unsettling, each crewman's tinny footfall echoing through the hall and into his ringing ears. He turns from one side to the other, but the old chest wound burns however he moves or keeps still.

There is no rationality in the decision, but it is made suddenly and with certainty. He pulls himself from the bed, marches to the bridge, and orders the helmsman to alter their course.

They reach the island slightly ahead of schedule, oddly favorable tides delivering Zuko to the Fire Nation Institute for the Infirm long before the staff can be warned or prepare a proper greeting.

"Forgive us, Fire Lord," the head physician begs, and Zuko does.

"I wish to see my sister."

Azula screeches in delight at the sight of him, squirming in her bindings. Two nurses wheel her into a private room and then leave, standing just outside the closed door.

"I _heard_," Azula says, drawing out the vowels almost obscenely, "that I was an aunt for a few days."

"What did you say to Mai?"

"Nothing that wasn't true."

She watches him hawkishly, through a curtain of her tangled hair.

"Did you name her for me, Baby Zu-Zu? Or our dearly departed mother? Was she as grey and wispy as Mai said?"

"We didn't give her a name."

Azula rocks in the chair they've tied her to, chewing her lip.

"What did it feel like, when the light went out? Were you watching? Did you see?"

"Yes," Zuko whispers. "I saw."

He returns to winter, to empty halls and echoing terraces. The palace is intact, his ministers alive and loyal. Zuko fills his hours with meditation. He almost expects another interruption, but everyone has gone back south.

Katara writes for them all, for simplicity's sake: a tally of progress marked in snapshots of daily life. The harvest and seasonal hunt were unexpectedly bountiful. The Earth Kingdom is slow in reforming but manages to send out regular trade envoys. The Fire Nation captains have been polite and happily accept the tribe's hospitality. He can see the hesitation in her final few lines: the twins are nearly a year old, and Suki is expecting again.

The outer apartments are closed for winter, furniture protected by thick canvas sheets, everything wrapped like a present for a guest who will never arrive. Zuko soon begins to take his meals in his private chambers, beneath the watchful woven eyes of Fire Lords long dead.

"When shall we expect the Lady to return?" his servants ask, each more diplomatically than the last.

He doesn't ever answer, issuing orders instead to close off parts of the palace that are not in use, cocooning himself against the cold, until his every day and night are marked by the same slow trudge from bed to terrace and back. He stops meditating, as well, and eats less and less.

His ministers take over the daily minutia of rule, carrying out his policies and treating Zuko largely as a rubber-stamp. He doesn't mind at all, preferring the solitude, communicating only by brushstrokes.

Eventually, Katara stops writing. He never writes back, just stares at the blank parchment. What is there to say, anyway? The cherry trees are dead. So are the flowers, and the grass, and the arrangement of decorative rocks in the garden. Mai is still gone, somewhere, and the palace is somehow more empty now than those first few weeks after his mother disappeared.

He dismisses the various attendants to enjoy extended vacations. There is no purpose in the disorder of clothing and perfumed baths and made beds. He is satisfied with the same trousers, the same warmed blankets to serve as a robe. He drags a chair out onto the terrace overlooking the main courtyard and finds the frozen tile beneath his bare feet to be a decent accompaniment for his insomnia.

When he does sleep, it is fitful and short and brought on by only the most extreme exhaustion. He dozes in the chair, stirs himself out of ugly dreams, wanders to the fire to consume a few tasteless crumbs, and then returns to his place at the rail. He can hear the remaining servants scuttling along through the corridors, batting away ministers and the concerned rabble.

Sometime around the new year, Zuko is awoken by Iroh's gentle hand on his forehead.

"I should have come sooner," he says regretfully, shaking his head. "Come, nephew."

Zuko allows his uncle to lead him inside, shedding the blankets at the door. Iroh starts a quick fire beneath a kettle and orders the servants to bring light bread and ginger tea. The attendants have returned—or maybe they ignored his orders and stayed, and a bath is drawn and fresh clothes set out. Zuko sinks into the water, breathing in steam that nearly burns.

Exile had made him accustomed to independence—he's never been comfortable with the overly personal aspect of royal servant duties, men paid simply to clothe him, to wash his feet, to polish his boots. But now he allows himself to be pulled and lifted and scrubbed, to have gentle hands massage his scalp and trim his hair, almost childlike in his submission, stepping into clothes clean and black as the sky.

Soon enough he is escorted back to his chambers, where the bed has been stripped bare and Iroh is fussing over the boiling kettle in the fireplace. Zuko lowers himself onto a cushion, hands locking around the corners of the tea-table.

"Aang and Katara came to see me," Iroh says. "Such a handsome couple. Very well-balanced."

He test a drop of tea on the tip of a spoon and shakes his head.

"No, no, not ready," he sighs. "They said I should come and see you. _Why,_ I said. Surely if my nephew needed me, he would know to ask. He would know that I would always come, quickly and happily."

He turns and smiles, and Zuko meets his warm, wrinkled gaze but does not smile back. The effort of contorting his lips and eyes around an expression is too much to even consider, and soon enough Iroh turns back to the tea.

Zuko can feel disappointment radiating from his uncle and imagines that disgust follows it close. It is a reflection of his own feelings, his own failures. All of this is his weakness: a Fire Lord of inaction, a man so selfishly twisted up in his own pain he shirks his obligations and denies his purpose. The room echoes with his shame, with phantoms of its long-gone occupants dancing in the flames' flicker, sighing, goring him with their disapproval.

"You're standing just where I was when she died," Zuko says suddenly, and Iroh looks up. "We had to keep her near the fire, for warmth. She was so cold. She would stop breathing for a few minutes and then start again. The midwife showed me how to rub her chest, like this—"

He sets his knuckles just at the top of his sternum and strokes downward, slowly.  
"—to help her start breathing again. I thought she would. I thought if I just kept—"

The outburst has originated somewhere outside him and descends, constricting his chest, tightening over his ribs. He gasps for breath the way his daughter did, right up to the end. His chest tingles where his fingers made contact, over the old wound, over his thundering heart.

Iroh's arms envelope him, drawing Zuko in protectively. It is the exact warmth he remembers from childhood, a comforting trust he hasn't felt in years. Here, in the quiet privacy of the room where his daughter and his marriage died, Zuko is finally released and begins, unexpectedly, painfully, to cry.

When he has calmed and composed himself, Iroh rises and serves the now-perfect tea.

"I should have come sooner," he says again. "I suspected that something was wrong, when you did not write with a happy announcement. But I never thought...I wished you would never know this pain, nephew."

"I failed as a father before I even had a chance to try," Zuko says, picking dispassionately at a slice of bread set before him.

"No, Zuko," Iroh says firmly. "There was nothing you could have done to save her. I know it is difficult to accept, but it is the _truth_. I know how you feel, Zuko."

"It's not the same! You have memories of Lu Ten. You at least had a life with him, if only for a short while."

Standing so swiftly is a mistake—he nearly collapses with vertigo, but Iroh catches his arm and leads him to the divan.

"My...my daughter never even opened her eyes."

Iroh is happy to play nursemaid, arriving early each morning to pull Zuko from his bed for tea, force him to eat more than crumbs, and then take him on long walks through the city. The people seem genuinely pleased to see him, and he can accept their condolences now without shame.

"You are quite popular," Iroh observes. "A weaker man would exploit his subjects' love."

"Pity isn't the same as admiration," Zuko replies. "Where are we going?"

"You don't recognize it?"

Yes, he does, and stops short at the gate.

"Uncle, I..."

He swallows, and his eyes dart between the monuments, hunched against the wind and dusted with snow.

"I'm not ready."

"You never will be," Iroh says with a sad smile. "Come, Zuko. I want to show you something."

Twenty paces past the front gate and then a sharp left to the mausoleum—but Iroh turns right and leads Zuko up a twisting path, barred on either side by tall hedges. The walk is hard on him, as months of convalescence have drained Zuko of color and strength. He reaches the path's end well behind Iroh and pauses, eyes closed, hand curled against his racing heart.

"Look," Iroh says, and Zuko opens his eyes. They stand at the summit of a hill which gently rises from a sea of snow-laden tombs, beneath the empty branches of a cherry tree. The cemetery spreads out as far as the horizon.

"Uncle, I don't—"

"There."

He points to the blackened base of the dead tree, where a cluster of small green-and-white plants poke through the snow.

"What? The flowers?"

"Snow-drops," Iroh says, bending to brush off the closest blossom. "They are the first sign of spring's approach. The first sign of the end of winter's darkness. A reminder that the world is beginning to renew itself."

"And, I suppose, a magic source of hope and connection?" Zuko nearly snarls. "Is this your wisdom, uncle? If I only look deep enough into my daughter's death, I will find some inspiration?"

"No," Iroh says. "This is merely life, Zuko. It carries on, and carries _you_, whether you are prepared for it or not."

Snow soaks through Zuko's robe as he drops to his knees.

"There is no power in this vast universe that will return my son to me, or your daughter to you, or stop time and allow you to dwell in grief. You must continue living, because you _must_. There is simply nothing else to do."

Iroh kneels beside him as Zuko looks down, blurring his vision around the petals of the nearest flower.

"This is a pain you will always carry, nephew. Always. It will never dissipate, but, in time, it will lessen. You will learn to carry it, to live with it, to set it aside. You will not be consumed, Zuko. You will go on."

It is not precisely the catharsis Iroh no doubt seeks, but Zuko nods, assents, too tired to speak. After a moment of rest, Iroh takes his arm and helps him back down the hill.

And he is right, of course. The pain does not disappear, but the days pass and the nights, and Zuko wakes up each morning and takes tea with Iroh and his meals, and he resumes court, returns to his throne and his duties, and little by little he finds that he is still alive. He carries on.

The edges of his daughter's memory become less sharp but remain, clear and bright and tucked away inside him. The snow melts, and the trees regain their leaves, and the terrace doors are thrown open to the warming breeze.

The first cherry blossom buds, and Mai comes home.


End file.
